She had not moved. Her arms hung down; her eyelids were lowered.
Heyst laid down his half-smoked cigar and compressed his lips. Then he
got up. It was the same sort of impulse which years ago had made him
cross the sandy street of the abominable town of Delli in the island of
Timor and accost Morrison, practically a stranger to him then, a man in
trouble, expressively harassed, dejected, lonely.
It was the same impulse. But he did not recognize it. He was not
thinking of Morrison then. It may be said that, for the first time
since the final abandonment of the Samburan coal mine, he had completely
forgotten the late Morrison. It is true that to a certain extent he
had forgotten also where he was. Thus, unchecked by any sort of self
consciousness, Heyst walked up the central passage.
Several of the women, by this time, had found anchorage here and there
among the occupied tables. They talked to the men, leaning on their
elbows, and suggesting funnily--if it hadn't been for the crimson
sashes--in their white dresses an assembly of middle-aged brides
with free and easy manners and hoarse voices. The murmuring noise
of conversations carried on with some spirit filled Schomberg's
concert-room. Nobody remarked Heyst's movements; for indeed he was not
the only man on his legs there. He had been confronting the girl for
some time before she became aware of his presence.
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